


Distractions

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Series: Arrow of Carnations [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Desk Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Josephine's work takes over everything, Love, Romance, Solas provides a distraction, background politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 09:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20240323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: Today was supposed to be her day off, but true to form, Josephine has ignored that. Perhaps she needs a distraction.





	Distractions

The midafternoon winter sun streams through Josephine's window, bathing her in a warm glow. She is in her private study, comfortably seating at her desk, tapping her quill impatiently against the sturdy oak as she considers her words carefully. She has withdrawn from her office for the day, thinking she accomplish more away from constant interruptions. But, as usual, her mountain of paperwork is so large she finishes one report only to find three more added to her pile. 

"And here I was under the assumption you would take the day off," Solas says from across the room. He lounges on a settee, shirtless, a large tome spread across his knees. 

"I am," Josephine says. "Or I will be. In a moment." 

"I believe you said the same thing an hour ago," he replies. He turns a page and the ancient yellowed parchment crackles under his touch. "And two hours before that." 

Josephine groans. "Has it been that long?" 

"I fear you have a very poor understanding of the phrase 'take the day off,'" Solas remarks. 

"As if you can talk!" Josephine swings around in her chair, eyes narrowed. "Your nose hasn't left that book all afternoon." 

"True. But I read for pleasure." 

"That looks an awful lot like studying to me." 

Solas chuckles. "It can be both, can it not?" 

Josephine sighs, shaking her head. "You're impossible." 

"I have been told so, yes." 

She turns around, putting quill to paper and finishes the letter. She waits for it to dry, then adds it to the stack of completed letters and reports in the upper left-hand corner of her desk. She selects the next letter from the pile on the upper-right. A missive from herself, a reminder to place the order for the Inquisition's uniforms. 

She pulls a fresh sheet across her desk and dips her quill into her inkpot. 

Solas closes his book. Dust motes dance in the sunlight. He rises, crossing the study, his footsteps barely perceptible on the plush rug that covers the stone floor. He places his hands on her shoulders, squeezing her tense muscles. 

She sighs, eyes closing, enjoying the pleasurable pressure of his massage. 

"Oh," she murmurs, eyelids fluttering. "That is quite nice." 

He laughs and kisses her cheek. "Your muscles are tense. You have spent too much of your day at one desk or another, I think." 

"I spend too much of every day at one desk or another. It is the terror of administration." 

He massages, cradling her neck, manipulating her head back and forth. "What is this one?" he asks. 

"An order that must be sent tomorrow with the dispatch to Jader," Josephine explains. "We are commissioning Lady Saphi to make the uniforms for those accompanying the Inquisitor to the peace talks at Halamshiral. After much… discussion… we have finally settled on a design that should appease all parties involved." 

Solas' hands move down her shoulders. "I sense there is some disapproval?" 

"Disappointment," Josephine says. "The Inquisitor would very much like a gown to rival the highest aristocrats. The Inquisitor has some fanciful ideas, but I fear dressing her in that manner would ruffle more than a few feathers. The Orlesian nobility already questions the validity of House Trevelyan. That Ashara is also a mage has turned important voices against her and the Inquisition. No. This ball will be as much a battle as the assault on Adamant. We must present a united front, and the best way to achieve that is through a united dress." 

She sighs wearily. "Securing an invitation to the palace was difficult enough as it was. I must give them no reason to eject the Inquisitor before the night runs its course. If what she saw at Redcliffe is true, if there is a plot against the Empress… Orlesian decorum cannot stand in the way of her attendance." 

"I sense this is a delicate matter," Solas says. 

"Very delicate," Josephine replies. "In Orlais, fashion speaks more loudly than words." She begins her address to Lady Saphi, quickly detailing the finalized decision on fabrics and embroidery. Midnight black velvet. Gold embroidery. The Inquisition's emblem embossed on the back. No one would could mistake their purpose or allegiance in that design. 

Her hand flies across the page. Solas' fingers rub small circles across the base of her neck. She breathes, inhaling his familiar scent. She wants to melt into his touch, but she has work to complete. 

"I had never considered that would be a concern," Solas says. 

"This is my duty," Josephine replies. "Leliana gathers secrets, Cullen commands the armies, and I decide how we should dress when we go to parties. Some days I am like a mother, scolding a flock of children."

Solas wraps his arms loosely around her shoulders and neck, resting his hands on her chest. He leans into her and presses a kiss to her cheek. "From what I have observed, the more mundane the task, the more crucial it becomes." 

She laughs, putting down her pen and gripping his hand. "It's nice of you to say that." 

"I mean it with the utmost sincerity." 

"I will go to any lengths necessary to avoid repeating the incident when the Inquisitor turned up at Vivienne's mansion in full arms and armour," Josephine says. "Madame de Fer's guests were shocked and terrified." 

"I imagine Madame de Fer herself was not." 

"Naturally." Josephine squeezes his hand, her fingers interlocking with his. "That was some time ago. Perception of the organization and the Inquisitor herself has shifted since then, but…" She shakes her head. "There is very little margin for error. One misstep, one mishap—"

"You will be at the Inquisitor's side that day," Solas interrupts. "I have no doubt you will deftly guide her through the maze that is the Grand Game." 

Josephine smiles. She puts a hand to the back of his neck and pulls him down for a kiss. "Thank you." 

He kisses her, soft and gentle, cupping her face. She flushes, warm from his touch, warm from the sun. She murmurs, breathless, wordless, against his lips. 

He draws away, but his hands linger on her shoulders. "I should leave you to your work."

"No," she says, craving more of his touch. "Stay?" 

He kisses her temple, nose brushing her hair. "I believe we have established that I am a poor influence on your… attentiveness." 

"I _can_ concentrate on more than one thing at a time," she says, picking up her quill. She dips it into her inkpot, refilling it. "That is within my talent." 

Solas kisses her neck, trailing a hand down her arm. He tweaks the loose fabric of her sleeves. "Is that an invitation to distract you?" 

Josephine shivers at his touch. "It is a compromise," she says. "I am at an impasse. I both need to complete my work, but I must also take a break. You could say I am taking a leaf out of your book and choosing both work _and_ pleasure." 

She grins, her eyes dancing with delight. 

He presses his lips to hers. "Admirable. I doubt you will last long." 

She pulls away. "Do you have so little faith in me?" she says, brandishing her quill defiantly. She scratches out two more sentences to Lady Saphi's address. 

"You have an admirable focus," Solas murmurs, his breath warm and tingling against her skin. 

"Hm… I do, don't I?" She loops the tip of her quill around, adding a flourish onto the first word of the next sentence for no other reason than she wanted to. 

His fingers trail back up her arm—wrist, elbow, shoulder. Goosebumps appear at his touch. 

Josephine writes. 

Solas caresses her neck and plants a kiss on her jaw. "I seem to recall—" He kisses up her jawline. "—that you once had difficulty concentrating—" He brushes her hair out of the way and kisses the sensitive spot behind her ear. "—when you thought of me." His lips graze her earlobe. "Something to do with a hearth, a couch, and a long, _long_ night?" 

Josephine laughs at the memory. She is long past the time she would blush from it. "You recall correctly," she congratulates him, her pen moving gracefully across the page as she speaks. "But I have learned much since then and have made much progress. You could say I have been an excellent student in the art of concentration." 

A low grunt rumbles in the back of his throat. His hand brushes her collarbone, his thumb rubbing the hollow of her throat. "Then perhaps I must double my efforts." 

"Must you see everything as a challenge?" Josephine finishes the letter to Lady Saphi, quickly scrawls her signature, then sets the ink with powder. She adds it to the stack on the upper left-hand corner and reaches for the next missive. 

“Only when it suits me.” Solas takes her idle left hand and caresses it. He raises it to his lips and kisses the back of her hand. 

Josephine scans the report. A very mundane, hastily written memo from Varric about utilizing his contacts within the Dwarven Merchants' Guild. The legal ones, that is. Reports on the illegal ones went to Leliana. 

She begins composing her response, her response a little more tepid than usual, asking Varric for more details. 

"You have the beautiful penmanship," Solas says as she writes. "Very much like you. Sophisticated and elegant and so very… curvaceous." He run a hand across the neckline of her dress, fingers brushing the tops of her breasts. 

A shiver trills down her spine. "Mother always said I had the worst penmanship of all my siblings," Josephine says. She smirks at his touch. "Despite the effort I put in to making it well… Presentable. Attention to detail is the key to politics." 

Solas’ lips linger on her cheek. "As you have very clearly reminded Varric in your missive." 

She raises an eyebrow. "You noticed? And here I was under the assumption all _your_ focus was on distracting me with your hands." 

He chuckles, that delightful, familiar sound rumbling low in his throat. The distinct laugh he makes when devious thoughts cross his mind. Desire coils within her at the sound of it. 

She grips her quill tight. 

"My dear Ambassador," Solas murmurs in her ear. "You are not the only one who can deviate their focus." He slips a hand down the front of her dress and squeezes her breast. His touch is slow. Deliberate. 

"Of course," Josephine says. She pauses, tongue resting against the back of her teeth, a pleasurable shiver shooting down her spine as he tweaks her nipple. She finishes her response to Varric, sets the ink, and moves onto the next report. A letter from Fereldan's ambassador to Orlais. 

"Does your impasse still stand?" Solas says, his hand caressing her breast. "Do you still wish to work?" His lips nuzzle the base of her throat. 

Josephine laughs. "Don't fool yourself, you haven't undone me yet. I am known in many circles for my efficiency—" 

He fondles her, teasing, caressing. She flushes, breath hitching in the back of her throat. She’s nearly lost her train of thought. "…my _efficiency_ in completing my paperwork," she finishes. 

It’s a struggle. Damn it. She hopes he hasn't noticed. She enjoys this game far too much. 

Solas presses his lips hard against her collarbone, hard. His teeth graze her skin. "I would never dream of coming between you and your paperwork." 

"Liar," she says, scratching out a formal greeting.

He withdraws his hand from her bodice. He leans around her, kissing her temple, long fingers unfastening the front of her dress. He pulls it free, opening the front of the gown. It hangs from her shoulders like a coat, revealing her undergarments—cream-coloured stays with pastel pink laces and a white chemise. 

"You have called my bluff," Solas murmurs, lips tracing her jawline. He toys with the laces of her stays, coiling and uncoiling them around his fingers. "I have dreamed many times of coming between you and your paperwork. You are delightful when distracted." 

“Delightful?” 

He kisses her earlobe. “Maddeningly so.” He tugs on her laces, pulling them loose. 

Josephine trembles. Her fingers tighten around her quill, fingernails turning white. “I can’t imagine driving anyone mad.” 

Laughter rumbles low in his throat. “I have it on good authority that you do.” He loosens the final lace. He opens her stays, fingers brushing her chemise, pinching the loose fabric. 

Josephine chuckles. “Then you have my most sincere apologies,” she says. She puts down a word. Then another. “I have never intended to drive you mad.” 

Solas nuzzles her hair. He pulls on her chemise, tugging it down. Her breasts spill over the loose neckline. 

“I have quite the opposite intention,” he murmurs. 

“Do you?” Josephine manages to scrawl down two more words. 

Solas cups her breasts. He caresses them, marveling, as he always does, in their size, their weight, too large for his hands. His thumbs brush her nipples, teasing her. They harden at his touch. He pinches. 

Josephine swallows hard. Her thighs, desire flaring in her groin. 

“Is that a blush I see?” 

“For paperwork?” Josephine says, her quill moving slowly across the page. "Certainly not." 

She manages to put down a full sentence. Solas watches, his cheek pressed against hers, his hands full with her breasts. She can hear his breath, sharp and quick. He is desperate for her to finish, and yet she senses he is desperate for her to prolong it. The agonizing wait entices them both.

Her smallclothes are damp. She can feel the slick between her legs. 

Josephine pushes the letter away. 

“Your letter is incomplete,” Solas says, slipping a hand down her stomach. “I would hate to draw you away before you complete your task.” 

Josephine rolls her quill between her fingers. “Should I finish it?" 

Solas grasps her skirts and pulls them up, petticoats and all. The fabric bunches around her hips, stuffed between her body and the armrests. “You may try.” 

“Where has your sense of propriety gone, messere?” Josephine teases, spine tingling. 

“My dear Josephine, propriety is a façade for the public,” Solas murmurs, kissing her collarbone. His teeth scrape her skin, lips pressing hard. She gasps at the touch. “Private affairs are a different matter entirely.” 

With one hand on her breast, the other slips into her smallclothes. His fingers stroke her, coating them with her slick. Her hips roll at his touch. 

She gasps softly. “Solas…” 

“The letter, Josephine? Do you wish to finish it?” His index finger finds her clit. He strokes her once. 

Her back presses involuntarily against her chair. “I… Truly, I should finish…” 

He nuzzles her throat, lips fluttering against her collarbone. His finger circles slowly, dreadfully slow, stirring her desire. 

She widens her legs, sinking deeper into her chair. 

“The letter… yes… the letter—” 

He slips a finger into her cunt. Her hand curls tight around her quill, ink staining her fingers. 

Josephine turns her head, her lips desperately seeking his. She kisses him, hot, urgent, open, her tongue slipping into his mouth. He grunts at her ferocity and pulls his hand free from her breast, holding onto the back of her chair to steady himself. She laughs and he nips her bottom lip, fingers pushing deeper, faster within her. 

She moans against his mouth. 

He withdraws his fingers, kissing her, teeth clashing against her by accident. He pushes her chair sideways, nudging it away from the desk, and pulls her into his arms. She melts into his embrace, her skirts tangling around her legs, her breasts pushing against his bare chest. 

Solas steps back, eyes sweeping over her, wetting his lower lip at the sight of her in such disarray. He runs his hands down her sides, brushing past her waist to grip her wide hips. 

She raises an eyebrow, shoots him an inviting smile, and touches her breast, fingers plucking her nipple. 

He growls, desire overwhelming whatever he had intended to say next. He wraps his hands below her rear and lifts her, skirts and all, onto her desk. She perches on the edge, a hand pressing down hard—directly on the unfinished letter. 

Her palm is coated in ink. She doesn’t notice. 

Solas pushes up her skirts, thumbs hooking around her smallclothes, pulling them free. He wraps a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her into a kiss. He slides two fingers between her folds, rubbing her clit, drawing gasps from her with every stroke. 

Josephine’s body shakes and she nearly slips off the desk. She puts her hands to his face, kissing him again and again as he fingers her. Ink smears across his cheek. Her clit throbs from the growing pressure and her breath catches in the back of her throat. 

Solas pulls away from the kiss. His breeches are undone—she doesn’t remember when that happened. His cock is in his hand, squeezing its girth, its ruby tip shining. She adjusts herself, shuffling to the edge of the desk, hands gripping the firm oak. 

One strong hand pressing against her back, the other gripping his cock, he kisses her, hot and fierce. He guides himself into her, groaning as he fills her. Her breath catches and she bites down on his lower lip. He grunts, thrusting into her. 

The table shakes. 

She locks her hands around the back of his neck, lips kissing the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw. Her lips press against his earlobe and she inhales, sucking, licking, her tongue swirling against the sensitive skin. He groans, long, loud, and nearly slips out of her. She chuckles impishly and runs her fingers over his chin, trailing ink. 

He thrusts, her hips rolling with his movements. Her breasts bounce. The stack of completed papers slide over the edge, spilling across the floor. She watches them go, her heart leaping into her throat at the thought of reorganizing them—then decides she doesn’t care. A problem for later. Much later. 

Solas turns her face, eyes finding hers. Ink is smeared across his pale skin, on his cheeks, his nose, his neck. 

She rather likes it. 

Josephine laughs. Solas raises an inquisitive eyebrow, his hand digging through her bunched skirts. 

He touches her swollen clit and her breath escapes her. He rubs and she gasps, back arching. Her cunt clenches tight around him. 

She gasps, completely breathless. “You—” 

He shakes his head, panting, wordless, too lost in sensation to speak. 

“Solas, you—” 

He kisses her hard. His fingers and his cock have lost pace with each other. She pulls him close, hands on his back. He tenses—he’s close now, so close, she can feel it. She is, too. Words escape her completely as the tension within her coils tighter and tighter, closer and closer to snapping. 

He comes, shaking, trembling, face buried in her neck. He moans, long and loud, against her lips, the sound muffled by their kiss. He pulls himself free, cock shining and wet. He kisses her temple, his fingers stroking her swollen clit, faster and faster. She reaches her end, shaking, moaning gloriously, her voice uncontrollable. 

Panting, Josephine slips from the desk and sits on the floor, skirts pooling around her, breasts flopping loose. Solas lays beside her, long legs stretched out, breeches left undone. Josephine glances at him, taking in dazed state of semi-dress. Laughter bubbles out of her and she presses a hand to her mouth. 

Solas raises an eyebrow. “Yes?” 

“Oh, I…” She clears her throat and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “Nothing.” She giggles. 

“Somehow, I fail to believe you, _vhenan.”_

She strokes his cheek. “You have ink on your face. All over.” 

He chuckles. “An acceptable punishment for the distraction I have caused today.” 

Josephine presses a finger to his mouth. “Never.” Her eyes dance, delighted. “This distraction was more than worth it. And, I must admit… the ink is rather… enticing.”

He catches her hand and kisses it. “An interesting note, indeed. I must remember it.”

“I should hope so.” 

Solas pulls her down on top of him, kissing her firmly. Josephine pulls away and rests her head against his chest. "Solas? May I ask something of you?" 

He strokes her hair. "What is it?" 

"Will you come?" 

He pauses. "Where to?" 

"Halamshiral." She holds him tight. "Though the entire inner circle may not be invited, I would have you there. With me." 

"Have you a need for an arcane advisor, Lady Montilyet?" he says. "Or perhaps an elven manservant?" Mocking derision clings to his words. 

She snorts with laughter. "Of course not," she says. "But I have a great need for a…" Friend? Lover? She trails off, saying neither. "Please be there with me." 

"Josephine," he says, pressing a hand to her cheek, "I will. It would be my pleasure to join you for a night that promises to be permeated with power, intrigue, danger and sex."

She laughs. "You sound positively intrigued.” 

"Courts enthrall me." 

She raises an eyebrow, about to ask when, exactly, he found himself at court, but she imagines he meant in a history book. Or reflected in the Fade. "I will add your specifications to Lady Saphi's order." 

Josephine sits up, looking eagerly to her stack of finished papers—only to find them scattered across the study. "Oh," she says, biting down a laugh. "Of course. I forgot." 

Solas pushes himself up and caressing the back of her neck. His eyes follow hers. "I suppose that is my fault, is it not?" 

Josephine breaks into laughter and she wraps her arms around him, kissing him soundly. She pulls away, her smile radiant. Silently, she takes his hand, pulling him to his feet. She leads him across the study to the bedroom and quietly shuts the door on her work.


End file.
